


Once, We Were Kings

by captnstarshine



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 01:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13800666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnstarshine/pseuds/captnstarshine
Summary: Thorin seeks Balin's council, sometime between Bree and Bag End. (Or: in which Thorin seals his fate.)Now all that remains of Erebor is memory, and a few precious trinkets—only that which they could carry with them in their desperate flight.All that Thorin can pass down to Fíli and Kíli is a nebulous longing for a homeland they can hardly fathom and may never so much as glimpse.





	Once, We Were Kings

**Author's Note:**

> I was always interested in the script for Richard Armitage’s Thorin audition tape—it was supposed to be a scene that took place between Thorin and Balin, sometime before AUJ begins. I took what lines/etc I could from the snippets available on The Hobbit Appendices, from what Armitage has said about it, and extrapolated the rest on a whim. (Note that the timeline here is more consistent with Tolkien's than the films'.)
> 
> Also, please picture Thorin’s city in the Blue Mountains a la Markarth from Skyrim, on a slightly smaller scale.

While the sound of sleeting rain, barely audible, patters against the stone walls, and the mountainside just beyond the door remains dark and cold under roiling grey storm clouds, and the only illumination is the fire burning steadily in the hearth, it seems to Thorin that all the world has shrunk around him.

Cupped in his palm, the bowl of his pipe has grown cool, the embers gone out from lack of attention. It takes more effort than it should to move, but Thorin does; he re-lights his pipe, fills his mouth with heady smoke and sighs slowly out. It helps calm his thrumming blood.

Thorin spends a long time before the fire, deep in thought, before Balin arrives. He must have seen the muddy boot-prints trailing up the long steps to his door, and it will be impossible to mistake Thorin’s outline in front of the fire; still, Balin’s footsteps pause briefly in the doorway. Neither dwarf offers a greeting, yet.

Thorin keeps half an ear on Balin—the remnants of the storm being shaken off his clothes onto the stone floor, the scraping of his boots, the dull thump of a heavy satchel on the table. An almost imperceptible sigh.

“You might’ve written.” Balin says, finally, tone too near to reproach for Thorin’s liking. “If I had known to expect you, I would have returned earlier, and with something to eat. Or tea, at least.” He hangs his own sodden cloak on a peg beside Thorin’s, still dark with water but no longer dripping, before the fire.

Thorin frowns deeply around his pipe. _Two and a quarter month without word is hardly time enough to worry_ , is what he almost says. Thorin is hard-pressed to admit any fault in the way he departed (hastily, refusing even Dwalin’s company, and ignoring Balin’s advice on the matter of following insubstantial leads) or conducted himself thereafter. He had wished to go alone and with speed, and he did not write because he did not know what to say.

Thorin grunts, breaths out a trail of smoke.

Balin shifts on his feet, face turning away. He clears his throat quietly but says nothing; instead, Balin retrieves his own pipe from its box upon the mantle and fills it. For a time, they smoke in silence. When a log cracks apart, Thorin wordlessly motions for Balin to remain sitting, and moves to shift its pieces with the poker, himself.

Thorin can sense how Balin is curtailing his will to speak and bites his tongue against the waspish remark building in his own throat. He need not pick a fight to take out his anger on Balin, of all dwarrow.

“I am sorry, Thorin,” Balin says, heavily, breaking the silence between them.

Thorin is grateful he does not have to broach the subject himself, after all. It is no difficult thing—with the two of them sitting alone in the dark, Thorin’s mood a cloud darker and denser than the ones outside—to deduce the outcome of Thorin’s venture.

Thorin allows another silence, this one mournful, to fall.

Smoke curls and dances in the air between them, momentarily obscuring Balin’s face.

“I crossed paths with a wizard.”

It is not exactly easier to speak of this than of the fruitless search for his father. But he must. The wizard shook loose the things Thorin had pushed aside for so long; the ember of desire and anger in equal measure that he had sought not to stoke glows with renewed heat in his breast, even as a bone-deep fear makes his skin prickle—their conversation has haunted his every waking thought and pursued him into his dreams each night, when he could force himself to sleep.

Balin’s head tilts curiously towards him. “Not by chance, I’d wager.”

“No,” Thorin agrees. “He introduced himself as Gandalf.”

“Ah. _Tharkûn_.”

Tharkûn— _“the grey staff”,_ as he is called among the Khazâd—is well known to the peoples of Eriador, as he pays them a great many visits. Too many, some say. Thorin had recognized him on sight, although he had never had occasion to cross paths with the wizard before.

From inside his satchel Thorin withdraws the piece of tanned hide, marked with crudely drawn letters burned into the leather as if under an iron: a message pressed to many such hides, distributed widely. “Tharkûn tracked me, to show me this. A message in the Black Speech, offering reward for my head.”

Balin startles and takes the hide from Thorin’s grasp with urgency. He rolls it out to study the message burned there; Balin is well-versed in languages, though Thorin does not believe the Black Speech of Mordor ranks high among his proficiencies. Balin lifts the spectacles hanging from his breast-pocket up to his eyes to look over the message, anyway. He strokes a hand down his beard, a nervous gesture. He rolls the hide back up quickly.

“But there was no trouble on the road?”

Balin’s blue eyes are sharp on him; suspecting, perhaps, that Thorin might be hiding a wound under his clothing. It would not be out of character, Thorin must admit. Though this time Balin worries for naught.

Thorin makes a dismissive gesture. “Only as much trouble as there ever is. There were some rough-looking folk in Bree who might’ve tried, though, if the wizard had not sent them scurrying off.”

“Then the news of Thráin…?”

Thorin’s jaw clenches.

“So it would seem.”

It is a thought that still stings sharply. His father’s memory was dishonored, used against him by some foul folk for their ill purpose. And had the Line of Durin fallen so low as to be the mark of petty criminals and mercenaries, looking for coin enough for their next meal?

Thorin spreads the fingers of his right hand and presses the palm against the arm of his chair, firmly. Such is his restlessness, he could scrub his face or tear at his hair, if he does not curtail such things.

Attempting to conceal anything of how he feels from Balin is largely a futile effort, of course. Even if it weren’t, Balin is among those few dwarrow—the number can be counted upon one hand—whom he trusts completely. Is that not why he came here, first? To air his troubles and take a little comfort in Balin’s council?

Yet Thorin feels too tightly wound, too raw, too fresh from the road, still, to let down his guard completely.

“Thorin,” Balin looks at Thorin from under his eyebrows, “who would make such a bounty? Who would know rumors of Thráin would draw you out?”

“Take your pick,” Thorin snaps, rising. “Enemies are not so difficult to come by, I have found. It is no great secret, either, that my father remains missing and his people would see him returned, if they could.”

Balin’s lips thin. Whatever it is he wishes to say, he keeps it to himself. It is probably for the better, but Thorin’s temper still rises.

The thrumming in Thorin’s blood has returned tenfold. Thorin has never taken well to sitting still. When his troubles make him restless, Thorin has always sought out Dwalin to spar, or hunt, or otherwise spent the day in the forge—beating metal into shape, sculpting function and beauty out of raw components. The feeling of hammer and tongs in his hands, the simple joy of craft, was a comfort when his hands and wits seemed too unwieldy for the task of leadership.

This—gathering up his simmering rage, and grief, and frustration, and sitting with them in the quiet like a scholar at his studies—is so unnatural, it makes his skin crawl.

What of the alternative, though? Stoking the ember in his heart? Forging ahead, blind and determined, towards an end he cannot predict? Towards a dragon laying curled and possessive over Erebor’s wealth, surrounded by the bones of Thorin’s people.

(And, a deeply buried fear Thorin dares not acknowledge even to himself: _Towards the sickness that claimed Thrór’s mind_.)

Thorin refreshes his pipe with deliberate slowness—there is a fine tremor in his hands, he notes with mortification that turns swiftly to anger. _Have I truly grown so weak as all this?_

Thorin leans a forearm against the mantle, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“There is more. Tharkûn had with him a map.” Thorin can recall it with perfect clarity: the map’s familiar lines and runes; the way a pit had opened in his chest at first sight of it, dread and confusion warring in him; and then, the inexplicable way Thorin’s hand had shot out desperately for its corner when Tharkûn disappeared it back into his robes. “Where he came by it I do not know. I admit at the time I did not think to ask. Wizards are ever meddling where they wish, and...” He shakes his head. “I thought only ‘let this be a mistake. A fake, a forgery.’ Such a task—it’s impossible.”

Thorin’s throat is tight. He looks up from the flames, to meet Balin’s wide eyes. He’s leaning almost out of his chair.

“A map of Erebor.” There’s a strange lilt to Balin’s voice. It is not a question, but Thorin nods anyway.

“A way inside, a hidden entrance. Visible only by the last light of Durin’s Day.”

Balin strokes his beard again, seemingly lost in thought.

“Tharkûn said the Dragon had long been on his mind and did not think the grandson of Thrór would have forgotten Smaug, either.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. Here Thorin pauses briefly, gathering his wits, before his next words fall between them, like cards, to land where they may: “He offered his help, and that of a burglar acquaintance, in reclaiming the Arkenstone.”

Now Balin slumps back into his chair, as weary as Thorin has ever seen him. Several long moments pass, in which Balin puts a hand to his mouth and stares into the light of the fire.

Finally:

“Thorin, you said it yourself. This task is impossible.”

Thorin doesn’t know what he wished of Balin, exactly. But to hear his own thoughts echoed back at him expels the breath from his lungs. It disappoints him, somehow.

Thorin knows well when someone wants something of him. He may not understand Tharkûn’s full intention, or what the wizard should stand to gain from this venture, but this much is true: he greatly desires Thorin’s help and is counting on Thorin wanting the same thing.

Mahal curse the wizard—but Thorin _does_. Thoughts of Smaug, of Erebor, have never been far. Since the expulsion of his people from Erebor, he has never slept restfully in his bed. Even less so, of late. The journey back to the Blue Mountains was one full of sleepless nights and endless, circular thoughts.

To see the Arkenstone in its rightful place once more, to walk the halls of his ancestors and see them filled with the light and warmth of forge-fire and the shine of gemstones again, to hear his people’s song echo down the long chambers, to sit on the throne of his grandfather and all Durin’s sons before him, to welcome his heirs to their rightful homeland—Thorin wishes for it so strongly his body could bow under the weight of the mere _wanting_.

“Perhaps not,” Thorin says, soft.

Out of the corner of Thorin’s eye, he sees Balin turn sharply towards him.

“Thorin,” Balin starts.

“What if we could do it, Balin? Regain the Arkenstone, unite the Seven Families under the banner of their rightful King, once more, and march upon Smaug with the strength of all of Durin’s Folk behind us.”

Thorin catches it—the wistful expression in Balin’s face, an echo of Thorin’s own. It is gone, shuttered over, just as soon as Balin’s gaze settles back on Thorin again.

“ _Thorin_. It is a good dream. If I thought it possible, you know I—”

“I told my father I would go to the anvil,” Thorin says, cutting off Balin’s protestations at the knees. “Looking upon our dead laid out before the gates of another lost kingdom, he asked if I should beg my bread at proud doors or go back to the anvil. I said to him: ‘The hammer will keep our arms strong until they can wield sharper tools again.’ And so, to the anvil I went. So did we all.”

Thorin recalls those early days, spent working and slumming in Mannish cities. Recalls the pittance he was paid for peerless craftsmanship, passed down from his forebears; he recalls all the hardships and bone-deep shame that he carried with him like a bundle of stones upon his back, beside the needs of an entire displaced nation. He recalls how he would bear it by reminding himself that the day would come, surely, that he would see his people restored. The day would come when Smaug was dead, and Erebor’s gates would open to welcome Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the King Under the Mountain, home, once more.

But the long years stretched on; and at the passing of each Durin’s Day it became more difficult to believe that Thorin would live to see such a thing. Certainly not if he consigns himself to this: living and dying in exile, visiting Erebor’s halls only in dreams.

“Well, we have spent all the long years since toiling. We have halls here, and store of goods, to show for it, it is true. Perhaps it is enough, for some, I will grant you. But it is not so for me, Balin. My mind has strayed to Erebor often of late,” Thorin admits, “and now a wizard comes to me saying the same. Offering a _chance_. A better chance than anyone shall ever have. I am a warrior and a king, Balin. I am bound by honor and duty to try.”

Now Balin rises, too. There is something in his face like grief. “Thorin. I council you, listen to yourself. Think of Moria.” Thorin recoils as if slapped. Balin stubbornly presses on. “I had hope, then. Of a kind. But for all our strength, and sacrifices, Moria is still lost.” He need not mention Thrór or Frerin by name, though he may as well have. And then, the final twist of the knife: “Thráin was lost, Thorin, on the very quest you dream of now.”

Thorin does not dare utter the words _I know_.

“What would you have me _do_ , Balin?” Thorin hardly recognizes his own voice; it is thick and rough and feels ripped out of him. His chest is tight, but the words flow off his tongue, quick and sharp with the desperation and bitterness he's sealed up tight for so many years. He gestures sharply. “Would you have me sit here, growing fat and old at my leisure? Would you have me face my forebears in the Halls of Mandos with shame? Would you have me bequeath to my heirs, this—a poor lodging in exile, and the disgraces of three generations?”

The mere thought seizes his lungs with horror, and he cannot continue.

“I won’t stand to hear this,” says Balin. He puts distance between himself and Thorin, discarding the remainder of the ash and leaves from his pipe into the tray upon the table. His hands are shaking, too. “You are my King, and you are dear to me above all others. Thorin, you have carried the weight of our people upon your very shoulders from the doors of Erebor itself. Everything you have, you have given to them. This ‘poor lodging’, as you call it, was hard-won by the work of your hands. The only disgrace worth speaking of is that you should think so little of it.”

Balin still wears that grieved expression on his face—but beneath it there is also something else; something softer and sweeter, yet still terribly sad.

Thorin passes a hand over his eyes, so he cannot see it.

“Erebor was lost over a century ago. I shall never live a day without mourning for our homeland. But here you have built a home for your people, and for your heirs. It will never replace what we’ve lost, but these halls are fine, indeed. Given time, they will yet grow and prosper. There is no mithril coat in all the world that was not first a strain of metal in the rock, raw and full of only so much potential as the craftsman wielded. There is hope _here_.” Balin spreads his hands. “In these mountains, where your sister-sons were born.”

Thorin is breathing laboriously, as though he’s run a great distance; it is too loud in his ears. He feels shame blossom in his chest and heat his face. Forcefully, Thorin pushes it away.

Yes, Fíli and Kíli were born in these mountains. They were born in a home with a wooden door that groaned when the winds blew. They have grown up with patches in their clothing. They have felt the pangs of hunger, and have feared for roving bands of orcs and goblins through the mountains, and they have borne the contempt of their lessers. All they have of their ancestors are but stories; the proof of the depth and breadth of their lineage was stolen from them even before they were born.

Thorin’s sister-sons may not fully understand what their lives have lacked, but Thorin does.

Erebor was not only its stores of gold, or the glitter of gemstones, or the sound of hammers echoing up from the forges by day and by night. Erebor was not only the scope of its throne room, so vast and impressive it diminished even those lofty Elven lords who came to pay their respects to the King Under the Mountain.

Erebor was everything: it was the soul of their people. It was the work of generations, their pride in their legacy as Durin’s Folk clear in every inch. Thorin used to walk the halls of his kingdom and saw all ‘round him the history of his people—the places where a thousand artisans had placed their chisel to carve an archway, a stair; tapestries, statues, and reliefs depicting kings back unto the Second Age, decorated every hall; libraries full of scrolls and books of craft, song, and history. An entire kingdom, vibrant beyond reckoning, and overflowing with the proof of their valor, their strength, their wealth, and their glory.

As a lad, Thorin had a harp. A magnificent harp. Mother was a musician, with the finest voice Thorin has ever heard, and crafted instruments that were matched by no-one before or since. The harp had been the work of a year, between them. Thorin took to the work well enough, and where his inexperience made him falter, Mother took up the slack. Together they chose the wood, crafted the strings, sketched its design and decoration onto paper a dozen times before ever setting the gouge to its task. It was a lap harp of the finest cherrybark oak with strings that could not have sung sweeter than if they were made of spun sugar, embellished with the head of a raven. The weekly work had been punctuated by song and laughter, and memories of those days Thorin has always held close and dear. Following Mother’s death, their harp was a tangible reminder of her—he could hear her voice in every note, could once again sing with her while he played.

For Father, and Grandfather, Thorin performed ballads, tributes to dwarven heroes and laments for their dead. For himself, and the memory of Mother, he played carousing songs. Thorin had not the talent for composition that Mother had, but occasionally he would try, to entertain his siblings. The sounds of his song often echoed throughout the royal chambers, accompaniment to Frerin and Dís’ games. (Later, they served as lullabies for the troubled mind of Thrór, a comfort, however meager, that Thorin could offer.)

The harp, as with a great many other things, has lain for a century under the cruel, clawed foot of a dragon.

That is what Erebor was; that is what Thorin had lost.

Now all that remains of Erebor is memory, and a few precious trinkets—only that which they could carry with them in their desperate flight.

All that Thorin can pass down to Fíli and Kíli is a nebulous longing for a homeland they can hardly fathom and may never so much as glimpse.

He is full of too much—too many words, too much feeling. Everything he can say seems too meager and small to encompass what he means. He doesn’t know how to make Balin _understand_.

His hands turn to fists, the embellishments of his pipe no doubt leaving imprints on his skin under the force. Thorin snarls. “We were once a noble people. Not tinkers, and merchants, scraping in the dirt for copper coins—but _Dwarf Lords_.” Thorin swallows hard, hoping his voice will not betray him by cracking; the words are fierce but scarcely more than a whisper, now. “Once, we were _Kings_.”

To this, Balin says nothing at all.

“I cannot bear it any longer, Balin. You fear this quest will send me to my doom. What I fear,” his chest heaves, the truth of these words coming to him with swift, terrible clarity, “is what I know without doubt: I will face my doom, here, one way or another. And I would do so without the dignity of a sword in hand, or the Mountain in my sights.”

Thorin aches, a pain beyond the physical. Grief, and longing, and anger without recourse, have atrophied his spirit, as sure as inaction would have atrophied the strength of his arms. How long until he wastes away completely, the ember in his heart diminished to ash? What remains will be no more Thorin Oakenshield than a broken, time-worn stone is the great fortress from whence it came.

It is a thought that terrifies Thorin more than dragon-fire ever could.

A long moment passes, tense as a bow string. The fire pops loudly behind him, and Balin drops his gaze. “Doubtless this wizard has some purpose of his own. You would trust him?”

Thorin sags, just a little, releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“His purpose will come to the fore, sooner or later. As for trusting him… No. I do not. But I will need him, just as he does me, for as long as it serves our own purpose.”

Thorin pulls self-assurance over his shoulders like a cuirass. If he cannot come by the feeling naturally, then wearing it by force of will shall do, for now. “I will go. I would have you by my side, if I could.”

“There is nowhere you could go that I would not follow.”

The words humble Thorin so much he falters. It is all he can do to offer the sincerest smile he can muster.

Balin offers a soft smile in return, then quickly schools his expression into one of ponderous thought. He places a hand on his hip, a pose oft adopted while seeing to Fíli and Kíli’s history lessons.

“You will need an army behind you.”

“Or a wizard, and his burglar.” Thorin has not felt any measure of hope for over a century, so he does not call what he feels now such. _Anticipation_ , perhaps. “I know who I will call upon, here. The Seven Families will give me their ear, if I go to them. More than that I would not count on, without the Arkenstone.”

“With a few willing and capable hands already signed on, with even a loose course of action, our petition would be better received. I will begin writing drafts, contracts, and such,” Balin offers. Thorin gives him a grateful nod.

“Dáin is,” Thorin searches for the right word, “troublesome. But he has axes at his command. If I can speak to him, convince him…”

“I will prepare the ravens,” Balin says, placing his spectacles back upon his nose, and begins gathering his papers and ink as if he means to begin penning drafts this very moment. He continues, over his shoulder: “It would be wise to bring Glóin into this venture, and quickly; such a quest will not be easily financed, and he would be put-out if you did not think of him, first.”

Thorin nods. “Where Glóin goes, Óin is bound to follow, which would bring our count to five, barring the wizard and his burglar.” Dwalin’s participation in this venture is a sure thing, of that Thorin has no reason to doubt. Balin hums in agreement.

Thorin has had weeks alone with his thoughts to plan, though up ‘til now they have been abstract things. Now they begin to take solid and immediate shape.

With Óin and Glóin their company has both healer and financier, and capable warriors besides. Dori has an arm as strong as Dwalin’s, and Nori’s skills may be of use, if Dori can keep him in check. Thorin fought alongside Bifur at Azanulbizar; he was ever loyal and fierce, and his injury has not left him infirm nor indeed without the will to adventure, as evidenced by the frequent trips he makes abroad with his cousins, Bofur and Bombur. They would make fine enough additions, if agreeable.

The Company—whomever else shall number among them—must depart in the Spring, that much Thorin knows for certain. Which grants Thorin only three months to gather allies, make preparations, and meet those of the Seven Families who will agree to hear his case. Not a very great amount of time, by any means, but it will have to do. As it is, Thorin’s Company will then have a little under six months to make the journey from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, to arrive within sight of the Mountain before Durin’s Day.

Thorin’s heart quickens at the thought.

The _anticipation_ Thorin feels growing inside him is as a bellows is to the flame of the forge. For a moment, Thorin feels as vital as he has ever been.

Thorin swiftly cleans out his pipe and tucks it back into its travel box. (A gift from Kíli for Thorin’s name-day, years ago. It is clearly the work of an unpracticed hand, and Kíli winces every time Thorin produces it, and, every time, promises to make Thorin a new one. He has yet to make good on that promise—perhaps he will yet, when Thorin passes his next name-day upon Erebor’s throne.)

The fire has done some work, but the cloak that Thorin pulls around his shoulders and fastens at his throat is still damp and heavy. He straps his sword back to its rightful place at his hip and crosses the room to the door. “I will go to speak with Dwalin,” he says. Thorin needs Dwalin’s unwavering faith more than he ever has. They have faced hardship and danger together, before, and Thorin could not wish for a finer dwarf to stand at his side; but this quest will be the greatest test of their mettle yet. “For now, we will plan amongst us three.”

“And what of Fíli and Kíli?”

In the doorway, Thorin finds his feet rooted to the ground. Thorin stares out into the grey curtain of sleet and mist obscuring much of the mountainside. The wind is strong and chill, and already it has seeped into Thorin’s bones; his cloak will do little for him, in its current state.

“They are Durin’s folk,” he says, slowly, without turning back to face Balin.

Somewhere down these steps, within the halls of this small city, his sister-sons may be curled before their own hearth with their own pipes, cheerfully trading wild tales or good-natured barbs over a dice game. The thought makes Thorin’s mouth curve upward, however slight.

“They are my heirs. It is their right to join such a quest. Dís will agree.”

Fíli is nearly grown, now, with Kíli not long behind. They are both capable in their crafts and their skills at arms. Thorin has trained them himself, and while Thorin suspects he is only a marginally better teacher than he is a student, he has always expected a great deal from them both—and they have done him proud.

If it should be their wish to join this quest (and he suspects it will), Thorin will not refuse them that right.

“They would follow you anywhere, Thorin, as I will. Although they will not understand the dangers.”

“Then,” Thorin says, firmer than he feels, the vision of his sister-sons’ smiling faces disappearing from his mind’s eye like smoke, “when the time comes, we will make sure they are ready.”

Thorin can feel Balin’s gaze upon his back. Balin does not only mean they have not yet seen war or faced the dangers of the wilds beyond the Blue Mountains. He means, _there are some tales you have not told them_.

Some things, Fíli and Kíli need not ever know. On this point Thorin has always been firm, and no one has yet challenged him on it. Let Thrór’s madness exist only in the memory of precious few. Let Azog the Defiler be to them nothing more than another nameless, faceless orc, and let them never understand how Thorin is still plagued by the memory of that fight—let the true horrors of Azanulbizar be the stuff of their imagination, intangible. Let knowledge of the ring that Thráin carried never trouble them.

More than that, let the quest to reclaim Erebor be to Fíli and Kíli something noble and inevitable, rather than an act of desperate hope by a failing king to restore the honor of Durin’s Folk. Thorin has never been able to deny them anything—if his sister-sons believe as much, Thorin will make it so.

For this much, Thorin makes a solemn prayer to Mahal.

Without another word, Thorin closes Balin’s door firmly behind himself, locking Balin’s weighty stare and the warmth of the hearth inside; Thorin steps into the storm.


End file.
